


The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

by beatriceHB



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatriceHB/pseuds/beatriceHB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas lets slip a secret from his past, and unwittingly wakes the darkness in James. The result is a revelation to them both. </p><p>Very high smut content. Follows on from The Journal of Lieutenant James McGraw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Set on the day of James’s return to London, this fic explores his brief reunion with Thomas, and imagines their last hours together.

As soon as he can safely do so, James hurls his bag down onto the pier and vaults after it, impatient to be away. His ship has taken three hours to travel less than a mile along the congested river, and the delay has made him tense and fidgety. It is barely a mile to his lodgings, and he covers the distance at a run, whilst all around him the city of London wakes from its slumber, ready to commence another brutal day of buying and selling, brawling and fucking. 

When he reaches the house on Villiers Street, he takes the stairs two at a time, pausing briefly to shout at the house girl: 

‘Get a fire going would you, and bring the bath up!’ 

The sound of her cursing follows him all the way up to his room, but she does as he asks, and quickly. And when the tub is full, he pushes her out, bars the door and then sags against it with relief. This is not quite home, but it is private and it does not move beneath him, that will do for now. 

His clothes have been on him so long that they feel like a horrible second skin, and he shudders as he peels them off, desperate to be rid of each stiff layer. One foot goes into the bath, then the other, and he watches as the scalding-hot water turns them both a livid shade of red. He eases the rest of his body in slowly, and then sinks down deep until the murky liquid fills his eyes and nose, and closes over his head like a baptism. 

Being underwater is always pleasant for James. The deafening silence is its chief appeal, that and the sensation of being cut off from the world, annihilated almost. He holds his breath as long as he can, and surfaces only when his lungs begin to burn. Finally, after a long soak, he commences scrubbing with his gritty bar of soap, and little by little the true colour of his skin emerges from under eight weeks of dirt. 

He sighs, if only it were so easy to clean his mind. So much misery he has witnessed in Nassau, so little good news to report. He’d arrived to find Governor Thompson slumped in a tavern, incoherent with grief and so far gone with drink that he pissed where he sat. Every respectable person in the town was either gone already, or frantically packing. And everywhere the pirates were at play; puking, drinking, whoring. He tried to see them through Thomas’s eyes, to see their desperation and their promise. But they did not make it easy for him. _I suppose we cannot all be saints._

As he steps out of the tub, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror and turns to regard his body critically. The voyage has been kind to him it seems, or at least sparing with its cruelty. In the watery morning light he is luminously pale, except for his face and his freckled forearms which always catch the sun. He has not lost weight, has probably gained some muscle, and after so much hard toil he looks on fighting form. The beard has grown out enough to be soft, and he is minded to keep it. Reasonably satisfied with what he sees, he pulls a blanket off the bed and wraps himself up in it, then stretches out on his chair in front of the fire. 

He sniffs the blanket hopefully, as if Thomas’s scent might somehow endure within its folds. Is that the faintest trace of his cologne? Most likely not, but these coarse fibres held him once and will do again. That thought warms James nearly as much as the flames. 

He’d known that he would miss Thomas, of course he had. But when it had really hit him, two or three days into the voyage, his loneliness had registered like a physical pain; more vast and overwhelming than any he’d experienced before. He was irritable all the time, and over the smallest things. His sleep was fitful, and in the early hours his skin would burn with the need for Thomas’s touch. Often he would reach for his cock, hoping to find comfort in a little self-love, but there was never sufficient privacy. He did not want to be rushed. Instead he would let it go and fool himself that his need for sex could be conquered by an act of will. But when sleep came, his dreaming mind would betray him; he would startle awake to find his cock stiff as a post and on the point of spilling. 

He draws the blanket tighter about him, and closes his eyes, the better to see Thomas in his mind. His lover will be awake now and dressed; sitting in his study or in the library, with a forgotten cup of tea going cold in front of him. He will be writing perhaps, or just staring into the middle-distance, caught up in some new theory. 

If James were to set off right away, he could be at Thomas’s side in under an hour. But now that he is relaxed and unobserved, a stream of less chaste images of his lover begins to bubble through his consciousness. They occupy his mind like an invading army, clamouring for his attention and begging him to linger a while and entertain himself. 

He is still impatient to see Thomas in the flesh, but… perhaps it would be sensible to blunt the edges of his lust before he encounters his lover? No doubt he will cut a more impressive figure with his desire somewhat sated, than if he goes there right away, all jittery and agitated. _Now that I am so close to him, a few minutes more is neither here or there._

He lets his right hand fall down and come to rest upon his thigh, not quite acknowledging what he means to do, almost creeping up on himself. His fingers stroke lightly up and down, tickling the skin below his hip bone and waking the nerves in every sensitive place on his body. He feels his cock move against his leg, and resists the urge to touch it; just eases his thighs apart slightly to give it room, and then enjoys the sensation of it twitching higher and growing harder, thicker. 

Somewhere behind his eyes, a tableau of imagined scenes flickers into life; well-thumbed fantasies conjured up to feed his lust. It is tempting to reach immediately for the most explicit images, but he holds them in reserve, choosing to tease himself a little first. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees Thomas waiting anxiously in the lanes behind the Haymarket; a newcomer in one of the city’s most notorious flesh markets. James casts himself in his usual role of predator, with Thomas as his willing prey. It is pure invention, and foolish nonsense, but he allows himself this guilty pleasure. 

_Thomas is sweating, not sure how to stand or what to say, fighting the urge to run home to his wife. James approaches him stealthily, enjoying the scent of panic coming off the fine gentleman in the shadows._

_‘Lost your way?’ he asks with a degree of sarcasm. Thomas looks away nervously and stumbles over his response. ‘Come now,’ James continues, advancing on the other man until his back is to the wall, ‘cease playing the coquette, if you look for company then say so.’_

_Thomas smiles shyly and finally looks at James, his eyes glistening with every kind of promise. Then he slips his soft, cool, hand into James’s breeches by way of answer._

‘Mmmm..’ 

The lieutenant closes his fist around his cock and strokes it. God it feels glorious to finally take hold of it and feel it forcing itself upwards, resisting his pressure. He shrugs the blanket off his shoulders and watches it fall away from his warm body, exposing him to a chill that he no longer seems to feel. He looks down at his cock, newly revealed, and the sight of it in his hand, all stiff and long, makes him lick his lips and breathe a little harder. Moments later, he lets his head fall back again, and his eyes fall closed. 

_Now they walk toward James’s lodgings; he leads and Thomas follows a few steps behind. Every now and then, he allows Thomas to catch up so that he can take some liberty with him - pin him roughly against a wall, press violent kisses onto his lips, force them apart with his tongue - all of which Thomas suffers with delightful meekness._

_Only when he sees the dark stairway to James’s room, does Thomas speak. He grabs the lieutenant’s arm nervously and asks, ‘you will not hurt me will you?’ James kisses him more softly then and replies, ‘do I really look that kind?’_

A sudden eruption of shouting in the street outside startles James briefly; enough to pull him back to reality and interrupt his rhythm. But as soon as he is satisfied there is no danger, his eyes close once again and his right hand resumes its labour. 

_Now the action moves to James’s bedchamber. The lieutenant reclines naked on his bed, his erection proudly displayed, and watches Thomas slowly undress for him. Every glimpse of pale skin and taught muscle his conquest reveals is thrilling. And the look he gives James from under his long lashes as he strips, oh dear god; it is as if the man were designed for the express purpose of bringing James to orgasm._

_‘What else would you have me do?’ Thomas asks, as the last of his clothes falls to the floor._

_James orders him sternly, ‘come here, and take me in your mouth.’_

_Thomas hesitates a little, his eyes fixed on James’s cock as though he cannot think how to approach it, but finally he climbs onto the bed and straddles him with athletic grace. His head dips down, but instead of doing as he is bid, he puts his mouth on James’s collar bone first. And from there, begins to plant kiss after kiss, like a line of stepping stones, down towards his groin._

With the fingertips of his left hand, James lightly caresses his neck and chest, following the path he has imagined for Thomas’s mouth. He can almost feel his lover’s breath hot and humid against his skin, and he cannot resist toying with a nipple, imagining Thomas’s tongue there. All the while his right hand keeps pulling at his cock, pausing every few strokes to allow his heat to subside a little, then pressing on to build it up once again. 

_Thomas’s mouth is tantalisingly close to his prick, and James closes his eyes in anticipation of warmth and wet. But then, to his astonishment, one of Thomas’s knuckles pushes underneath his body, and then up, gently twisting into him. James looks down in shock, he did not expect such boldness and depravity from this wide-eyed creature, who now smiles up at him teasingly. Perhaps he is more experienced in this game than he lets on! Only when his knuckle meets resistance, does Thomas do as he is told and slowly close his lips around James’s cock, sucking it deeply and deferentially._

_‘No.’ the lieutenant groans, but of course he means the opposite, and his erection pulses frantically against Thomas’s tongue. Minute upon minute, Thomas sucks him, his beautiful mouth wet and glistening, his eyes glassy with satisfaction. And now he is extending his finger, stealthily inserting it deeper and deeper, reaching parts of James that no-one before has ever touched._

A moan escapes James’s mouth, slipping out between clenched teeth. His left hand slides furtively into the small of his back, and creeps down and down, until his fingertips find the tight little ridges of his anus. The ticklish sensation makes him quiver, and his breathing becomes shallow. He presses firmly against the muscle there, and feels every bone in his body go liquid in response. 

_‘How do you like me?’ James asks, wanting to hear praise for his body and specifically for his prick. And Thomas answers him by theatrically planting a row of languid kisses along its length; he starts at the base and progresses upward in tiny increments, as if the sheer size of the lieutenant’s member calls for a degree of patience. When he reaches the tip he swallows the whole thing once again, and as he sucks, slowly he extracts his finger…_

The contractions start deep inside James, closing his arse like a fist and then trembling through his cock. His right hand jerks up and down feverishly, he does not breathe, and there is a desperate, hot pressure in his balls that can only end one way. 

_Now the narrative fractures into a delirious merry-go-round of half-recalled fucks: Thomas’s face at the point of release; Miranda’s nipples against his tongue; the feel of Thomas’s hot shivering body beneath him as they fuck; lips and fingers and hot, slick, holes that he has filled…_

And now, finally, he comes undone. Cuts himself loose. Spills hot and slippery through his fingers, unwinding three months of tension in an instant, with every pulse of his cock. The feeling of release is so profound it makes him shout, caring nothing for his neighbours. He gasps, and shivers, and watches rope after rope of it, scalding its way out of him, until finally there is nothing left to see, and the world goes dark. Panting and shaking, he waits long minutes for his vision to return, and his heart to stop racing. 

He really ought to make a move now, it is almost noon. 

****

Later that morning, Thomas finds himself kneeling outside the drawing room, his ear pressed to the keyhole, whilst James and Miranda converse within. It is thoroughly out of character for Thomas to creep about in this way, and he is somewhat embarrassed. But he cannot bring himself to quit his eavesdropping and leave them be. 

Really, it is Miranda who is at fault. It was cruel of her to spirit James away when Thomas’s words of welcome were barely out of his mouth. She of all people should know how it feels to have the lieutenant for a brief moment, only to lose him again. Christ! All of five minutes the man has been back, and already he has turned the household upside down and set everyone at odds. All is turbulence where before was flat calm.

He sighs with agitation, and his ears prick up again. It is not quite an argument that James and Miranda are having, but it is something like that. Thomas can only pick out a handful of words. Every sentence begun in full voice soon descends into angry whispering. 

Miranda’s voice cuts through most often, and her pleading tone chafes on him a little. Why must she always trickle doubt in James’s ear? She makes her husband out to be some kind of holy fool, who cannot be trusted to manage his own affairs. It is hurtful and belittling. He will decide the course of his own life for heaven’s sake, he will not have his wife decide it for him whilst he waits outside in the hall like a child. 

She thinks – they both think – that common feelings like pride do not trouble him. If only they knew the effort it costs him to rise above every slight and practice every virtue that he preaches. It is exhausting to be a man of principal! 

But even as resentment finds a foothold in his mind, along comes a gush of conscience to dislodge it. Miranda’s fear is borne of love, he knows that in his heart. And he has forced her to endure so much, especially where James is concerned. If he tries very hard he can find her actions endearing rather than undermining. And he will try. He will. But right now… confound it! He cannot wait a moment longer to see the one who loves and understands him best of all. 

‘There you are!’ he says, throwing the door open and striding into the room, hoping that his knees are not dusty. ‘I had almost given you up.’ 

The lieutenant’s head snaps round in surprise, and he leaps up arms outstretched, covering the distance between them in three long strides. Their first greeting was painfully formal (too many eyes upon them) but this time there is only Miranda here to watch as their bodies collide; they crush each other in a painfully tight embrace that does not quite know when to stop. Thomas clings on like a drowning man and breathes deep, savouring the familiar scent of cheap soap and salt air. 

When they finally de-couple, James takes Thomas’s hand, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses it with a gruff sort of gallantry. His hands are rough, and his grip is so strong. Thomas’s heart flutters in his chest and all his eloquence deserts him. 

‘Beard?’ is all he manages to say, wincing at the throttled sound of his own voice. 

James smiles and smooths it down with his fingers, a little self-consciously. ‘How do you like it?’ he says, and turns his head from side to side so that Thomas can consider him from all angles. 

It makes him look deliciously like rough trade, but Thomas has absolutely no intention of saying that. Instead he clears his throat and opts for a less risky observation, ‘it rather suits you,’ he says, ‘and the red in it brings out your eyes.’ 

‘You approve then?’ James asks, peering around for a looking glass. 

‘Do not feed his vanity Thomas,’ Miranda chips in wryly from her seat in the stalls, ‘he sees how well you like it from your blushes.’ 

Her comment makes Thomas blush even deeper, and reminds him once again of the pain they are inflicting. They don’t intend to hurt her but the result is the same, and it shames them both. God knows, Thomas has tried to make light of his feelings for James, to act as though the lieutenant is still ‘their’ lover rather than his alone. But Miranda is shrewd and knows him too well. Nothing escapes her notice. 

‘Let him blush, why should he not!’ James comes to his lover’s defence, although it is not needed. 

‘I am speaking to my husband,’ she counters. Her expression is brittle. 

‘No. You are continuing your quarrel with me, through him!’ James scowls, his eyes hardening. 

_I must part them right now_ Thomas thinks _before they put out their claws._ ‘You must be exhausted James,’ he says hurriedly, looping an arm around the lieutenant’s back as though he expects his legs to give way any minute. ‘How thoughtless of us to keep you talking when you cannot have slept properly in weeks.’ 

James frowns and opens his mouth to deny it, but Thomas silences him with a look. 

‘Come,’ he continues, ‘I insist that you go upstairs and rest. I will have them set a fire in my bedchamber.’ And with that, he pilots James out of the drawing room and deposits him at the foot of the stairs. 

‘I will follow soon, I promise’ he whispers, when the lieutenant tries in vain to lead him up, ‘but I must make things right with her first.’ 

James rolls his eyes, but does not attempt to talk him out of doing the right thing. Instead, he takes hold of Thomas by his waistcoat, and slowly pulls him closer, trapping him tightly against his chest. Then he presses a kiss onto the lips of his willing captive. It is long and slow, the kiss. And the effect it has on Thomas is similar to throwing back a pint of fortified wine after a month of sobriety. 

At the first touch of his lover’s tongue, he becomes intoxicated. His brain ceases to function, and in its absence, his hands develop minds of their own. They pull James’s hair loose about his shoulders, burrow into his clothes in search of warm skin, and caress every part of him that they can reach; trying desperately to touch all of him at once. And just as Thomas’s cock begins to stir, James murmurs in his ear: 

‘Leave me then,’ (his tone more seductive than Thomas has ever heard) ‘if you can.’ 

‘Torturer,’ Thomas whispers, smiling at the ease with which his lover can tempt him. He knows that he will have to break their embrace, because James will not. Eventually, and with great difficulty, he pushes him away with an imploring look that says ‘what else can I do?’ 

James says nothing, just smirks infuriatingly and begins to mount the stairs. By the time he is ten steps into his climb, his waistcoat is halfway off his shoulders and he is busy with the cuffs of his shirt. 

Thomas groans and rakes his hands through his hair, ‘have you no mercy?’ 

‘Do not be long,’ is the lieutenant’s response, and Thomas watches him keenly until he turns a corner and disappears from view. How easy it would be to run after him. He’s not sure how he doesn’t. 

When he returns to the drawing room he finds Miranda seated at the virginal, a concept which used to tickle him rather. 

‘Well played husband,’ she says, without looking up, ‘now you have him all to yourself.’ 

And before he can respond, she begins to play; effectively silencing him, and conveying her mood rather well. (He does not know the piece, but it sounds unbearably sad). 

He crosses the room and stands at her back silently, waiting and listening, until the worst of her anger has passed. After a few minutes, he gently places his palms upon her shoulders in wordless apology. She startles a little and ceases playing, but she does not move. And gradually the affection in his gesture draws her poison, as he knew it would. Finally, she places her own hands over his, and gives them an almost imperceptible squeeze. His apology is accepted. For what specifically he is not sure, but in general, he knows all too well. 

With the air finally clear between them, she slides across the seat and motions for him to sit beside her at the keyboard. It’s a tight fit but they have managed it before; he remembers playing duets with her in the early days of their marriage. Was the instrument a wedding present? He cannot quite remember when they stopped playing together, but suspects it was around the time they stopped sleeping together. 

‘You will want some time alone with him, of course,’ she says quietly, going straight to the point. 

‘Can you give me just this one day?’ he asks, out of courtesy. ‘I know it was your intention to leave this afternoon, but if you would delay your departure until tomorrow night, we could go out all three of us together on the morrow?’ 

Her face brightens a little at that, so he continues, ‘I promise you my love, when this fight with my father has ended, I will find a new appointment for James here in London. Some dull commission or other. I will occupy him for months.’ Then, with a gentle nudge of his elbow, he teases, ‘you may provoke and insult him to your heart’s content; it is your favourite sport, is it not?’ He winces a little as he speaks, praying that it is not too soon. 

Her eyes are hard for a moment, but then mercifully she smiles. ‘Is that really what I do?’ 

He pats her hand, ‘almost exclusively.’ 

With a soft thud her head drops onto his shoulder and he answers the gesture by sliding a comforting arm about her waist. ‘Dear lord,’ she sighs, ‘I have missed him so, and this is how I show it? What a hag I have become.’ 

‘Shh…’ he cuddles her against him, ‘you are no such thing, silly girl.’ But after a suitable pause he adds, ‘we… er… ought to make some allowances for him though? Think of the three months he has been at sea, enduring all manner of hardships. Such conditions would try the patience of a saint.’ 

She raises an eyebrow, ‘and we know he is not that.’ 

Sighing, he has to agree, ‘indeed we do.’ 

‘I just cannot stand to see you so giddy,’ she complains, her hands working nervously in her lap, ‘it makes me fearful. You do not think clearly, and neither does he. Lord knows I do not want to play the governess, but you have cast me in that role. If you will not protect each other then it falls to me. Who else is there?’ 

He cannot think how to respond to that, not without risking a return to hostilities, so instead he probes for information. ‘You tried to dissuade him then, from approaching the Sea Lords?’ 

‘Of course I did.’ 

‘And he…?’ 

‘Fought me on every point until I gave way. Oh god, must you glow so much to hear it!’ Her face is a picture of exasperated fondness. 

Thomas tries to glow a little less, but inside he is dancing. He knew he could rely on James to defend him. His Lieutenant will always resist the temptation to give up the fight, or to take the easier path. He is gloriously tenacious, unswervingly loyal, unbearably beautiful, and… too late, he notices that Miranda’s eyes are scrutinising his face. 

‘Oh for god’s sake, just go to him,’ she says wearily. 

He is scared to open his mouth, so he kisses her forehead instead. Once again he is reminded how lucky he is to have this wife, and he flushes with sorrow and guilt at every unkind thought he has entertained about her of late. 

As he reaches the door she says, ‘will you do me a kindness though, and take him out? I am not in the mood to bear witness to love’s young dream.’ 

‘Of course my love,’ he says, relieved that this is all she asks of him, ‘it is the very least I can do.’ 

****

James lies sprawled on Thomas’s bed, whilst the chambermaid is busy at the fireplace. He has tried before to help the servants in their work, but it seems only to perplex and irritate them. These days he leaves them be. 

The girl is young, perhaps seventeen? Quite pretty. He wonders if he should re-button his shirt, but finds he lacks the will. Most likely she will not look at him, they are all so gallingly timid. 

And anyway, where the fuck is Thomas? His whole body aches with the need of him. He presses his face into the sheets and noisily inhales his lover’s scent, for all the world like an addict drawing on his pipe. He cannot make himself care what the maid will think of it. 

When the flames are raging convincingly in the hearth, and the girl has scurried away, he relocates his restless body from the bed to the rug before the fire. This room, like no other in the house, feels like home. But even here he cannot quite rest easy. Something scratches at his conscience, assisted by the sombre music drifting up the stairs. 

Miranda’s warnings have struck a chord, much as he hates to admit it, and he begins to feel remorseful for the tone he took with her. Is she right, has he allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security? 

Few of Thomas’s friends know of his relationship with James, and if he is honest, those that do merely tolerate it. The servants are well aware, of course, and do not bat an eyelid. But Thomas pays them handsomely for their silence, so is it any wonder? James has made his peace with his nature, up to a point. But it is deeply unpleasant to be reminded of how cruelly he would be judged if the truth were more widely known. 

The music stops suddenly, and in the silence James finds it easier to chase away his fears. After all, why should he of all people succumb to cowardly thinking? He has managed risk before without coming to harm. And even if the worst were to happen and they were all brought up before the courts, what of it? Did not Captain Rigby escape to France with only a fine? And he was both notorious and prolific in his couplings. The crown has no need to make such an example of Thomas Hamilton. No, his plan is a sound one, he will not be dissuaded. He will approach Admiral Hennessey at the next opportunity. 

The sound of approaching feet interrupts his thoughts, and causes his skin to prickle with anticipation. Here he is, finally! Moments later, Thomas appears in the doorway, smiling delightedly at the sight of his lieutenant, half-dressed and idling on the floor. 

‘You have made yourself comfortable then?’ 

‘Christ, has the teasing begun already?’ James tries to feign irritation, but cannot prevent his mouth from twisting up into a lopsided grin. ‘I have slept for six weeks on a hammock the width of your belt, my Lord, do not speak to me of comfort.’ 

Thomas sinks down to his knees then, and stretches out beside his lover with an easy grace. ‘Oh the hardship,’ he says, ‘six long weeks with nothing to look at but strong young men, however did you stand it? Ow, that hurt!’ 

James props himself up on one elbow, so that he may look down on his lover. ‘Be grateful it was only your shoulder, next time I will punch a more delicate part!’ 

Thomas smiles up at him, the back of his head resting neatly upon his hands. Dear god, even on a hard floor he manages to arrange himself attractively. James cannot tear his eyes from him, unable to make himself believe that the long drought is truly over. Be calm, be calm, he commands himself with increasing desperation, but he cannot hold back the tide of emotion that threatens to pull him under. Love, gratitude, lust and fear - all these and more run searing through his blood. 

In truth, there were young men in the crew who might have caught James’s attention in the past, but not one could hold a candle to this teutonic vision. Everything about Thomas suggests purity, from the perfection of his dress to the paleness of his hair; only the mischievous glint in his eyes hints at something filthier within. The whole ensemble works powerfully on James’s libido; _corrupt me_ , it seems to say, _ruin me_. Christ how James has missed him. 

‘James..’ Thomas says, as the lieutenant’s hand finds his thigh and begins to travel upward. ‘James, I promised her I would take you out.’ 

James continues undeterred, now reaching for the buttons of his breeches. ‘Did you agree a specific time?’ 

‘I gave her the impression it would be soon… James, don’t!’ 

But he is already undone, and now James’s fingers are pushing aside the warm linen, advancing remorselessly toward their objective. ‘I can work quickly,’ he murmurs. 

‘Damn you,’ Thomas groans, but his breathing is shallow and his lips are parted. James knows that he will take no action to restrain him, however much his mouth protests. 

At his lover’s first touch, Thomas whispers ‘oh!’ and his cock pulses fiercely. James cannot help but smirk; here is the result of three months’ abstinence! Well if Thomas is hungry for caresses, he shall have them, and more besides. 

‘Unbutton your shirt so I can look at you,’ he says, ‘I cannot do it, my hand is occupied.’ 

‘I can’t James, we haven’t time…’ 

‘Oh enough with all of that, unbutton it _now_.’ 

This time he gives it the tone of a command and the effect is like magic, Thomas cannot do his bidding fast enough. His eyes are wide, his cock stiffens perceptibly, and his fingers stumble over one another in their haste. When he is done, he removes his neckcloth and slides his shirt over his shoulders as far as he can, for good measure. 

James momentarily loses himself in the sight, and forgets to maintain the rhythm of his hand. Every inch of Thomas’s pale skin tempts his mouth, begging to be defiled, bruised purple with kisses, nipped between his teeth. His eyes alight hungrily on Thomas’s broad shoulders, then wander down through the ripples of muscle on his chest, marked only with a light sprinkling of blonde hair - so satisfying to draw one’s fingers through, and he does, until Thomas moans and pushes his hand back into position, saying: 

‘Put that back, I have need of it.’ 

James complies happily, and then plunges forward to drive his lips, his tongue and his teeth into Thomas’s neck. It is offered up to him like a sacrifice, warm and yielding, and with every lick and bite James’s mouth fills with the taste of his lover. Thomas shudders with pleasure in response and his hips thrust upward eagerly, gloriously undignified. 

‘You would promise me anything in this state, would you not?’ James murmurs. And all the while his hand continues its motion, stroking and stroking, gently persuading. 

Thomas squirms and arches his back in a way that is almost feline. ‘Name it,’ he says. 

James captures his lower lip and sucks on it lovingly, then slowly releases it, debating as he does so whether it is wise to ask the question that has burned in his mouth for six weeks. Could he bear to hear Thomas say no? Oh damn it, he will speak! 

‘Come away with me?’ he says, and then looks down earnestly into the other man’s eyes, scanning for his reaction. 

‘What?’ Confusion wrinkles Thomas’s brow, and his eyes pop open wide. ‘What do you mean? Where would we go?’ 

‘I would take you to New Providence,’ James continues, his voice becoming unsteady with excitement, ‘I would have you govern there.’ 

Thomas’s mouth works silently and his frown remains. James finds himself losing confidence. Softly, he begins circling his thumb around the tip of his lover’s cock, in an unconscious attempt to extract a positive answer. 

‘Of course I know it cannot happen right away,’ he explains, ‘I am not so deluded as all that! But in the future, when we have made it safe… who knows what may be possible?’ He swallows, and prepares to make a further admission (after all, nothing ventured). ‘I have seen a house there.’ 

‘You have?’ Thomas bites the side of his hand with pleasure, and his eyes go dreamy and dark. 

James can see the place so clearly in his mind, though he glimpsed it for only a few moments as he rode past. It stands alone in a sea of long grasses, plain and unassuming. The sort of place one might keep a treasure safe from the world. How to describe it? He clears his throat: 

‘It is a little way inland,’ he says, ‘an hour’s riding if that. Of course you would need an office in Nassau as well...’ 

‘You would live there with me? You and I together?’ Thomas interrupts, a little breathless; whether through desire or incredulity, James is not certain. He finds that his hand is beating faster, in a bid to keep pace with the anxious beating of his heart. 

‘With you _alone_ ,’ he says, emphasising the word. Then pauses to caress Thomas’s mouth with his tongue to reinforce the point. ‘Just think of it! We would be three months sailing from the nearest magistrate, and your wretched father. No prying eyes to reach into our bedroom and observe how far our friendship extends. Just hours, and hours, and hours, of this...’ Again he slips his tongue inside, deeper this time, and the strokes of his hand become frenetic. 

Thomas’s eyes flutter shut, his breath comes in short spurts, and his cock trembles against James’s palm. It is as though his whole body says _yes_. 

When he comes, powerfully and noisily, soon after, James is not certain if it is the action of his hand that has provoked it, or his words. He can only look on in happiness as Thomas tenses and shivers beneath him, his face screwed up delightfully, his lips all flushed and pink. And when his cock spills over, James revels in the feel of it, running all hot and wet through his fingers. He cannot resist raising his sticky hand to his mouth, just to remind himself how sweet his lover tastes. It makes his own cock twitch painfully. 

There is no one on god’s earth remotely similar to this man. _And he is mine._

****

Shortly after noon, Thomas sits contentedly in a hackney carriage, with his head resting comfortably on James’s shoulder, and his lover’s arm slung possessively about his shoulders. He finds himself daydreaming a little as the cab bears them bumpily eastward, beyond the fashionable districts and onward into the sooty gloom. Their destination is one of Thomas’s choosing; he has not yet divulged it to James, and intends to put off doing so for as long as he can. 

It is a slow and chilly journey, the horses are old and the windows of the cab will not close properly, but Thomas could not risk taking his own post chaise, not where they are going. It would be broken down for firewood in under an hour, and the coachman most likely robbed and beaten. With a shudder, he imagines reporting the incident to his father and requesting the money for a new carriage to replace it. Intolerable! No, this is the safest way by far. 

Of course, he would much rather be at home, enjoying the lieutenant’s company in warmth and relative privacy. But his conscience would give him no peace. He promised Miranda that they would go out, and so they have. 

He lifts his eyes to look at James (who is at this moment staring suspiciously out of the window) and lets his mind drift back to their earlier conversation. 

_Come away with me?_

Thomas feels himself smiling, and he is gripped by a strangely pleasant nausea. Images of a very uncommon domestic life begin to form behind his eyes. He knows nothing of the house, so those details are sketchy, but James is there in sharp focus, striding about purposefully, strong, capable, authoritarian. To be in his presence every day, his best companion, is it really possible? In his excitement he ignores the voices that whisper, _it is a fairytale,_ and worse, _where is Miranda in all of this?_

‘I do not recognise any of this,’ James complains, pulling Thomas from his reverie, ‘where are we going?’ 

_Perhaps it is safe to tell him now_? Thomas thinks, _he can hardly leap out whilst the coach is moving._

He coughs and says, as nonchalantly as he can, ‘we are going to a tavern in Houndsditch.’ 

‘Houndsditch? Have you lost your mind?!’ 

The lieutenant becomes suddenly animated, nostrils flaring, brow furrowed with concern. Already he has one hand on his sword, as though miscreants were just this minute preparing to overwhelm them. Always the valiant knight. 

‘Quite the opposite,’ Thomas replies, taking James’s sword hand gently and sheathing it in his own, until his lover looks a trifle less agitated. 

They alight moments later, and Thomas leads the way down a dingy street, James following closely at his back, exuding menace. He steps lightly over the grimy cobbles, and feels his heart begin to pound with familiar excitement; he always feels it here, the thrill of disobedience. 

A few paces ahead of them a doorway gapes open, cut crudely into the wall. Noise spills out of it into the street, along with the astringent smell of gin and cheap candles. He makes for it impatiently, but as he is about to step inside, James’s hand closes around his arm like a vice. 

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he hisses, ‘we are spitting distance from Rag Fair for fuck’s sake. I have no idea what kind of people frequent this place, but I know they are not your people.’ 

‘Your concern is noted lieutenant,’ Thomas replies, trying to supress a smile, ‘but on this occasion I am going to discount it.’ At that, James’s expression darkens a little so Thomas adopts a more placatory tone, ‘trust me this once?’ And then he turns away quickly and ducks inside, before James can raise more objections. 

A thicket of whores impedes his progress through the entrance hall, but Thomas squeezes past them eventually, and presses on into the smoky din. The dice tables are already busy, crowded all around with hosts of eager faces, but Thomas avoids them and makes for the snug instead, where the mood is more convivial. Chairmen, rag traders and other tradesmen gather here in small clusters, come to spend their wages on gin and company. The furniture is battered but clean enough, and the proprietor (just now warming her comely legs by the fire) turns a blind eye to all vices that do not threaten her income. 

As Thomas enters, she sidles over to greet him, ‘there you are sir, I was worried sick! We have not set eyes on you for months, I was just saying so to Mary. Are you well? You look well.’ She stops just short of pinching his cheek maternally. 

‘I am very well, thank you. And you?’ 

But she is no longer listening, having just noticed James lurking in the shadows at his back. A knowing smile spreads across her face. 

‘Ah’ she says, prodding Thomas in the ribs with a manicured finger, ‘now I see what has kept you busy.’ Then more quietly she adds: ‘he don’t look like one sir, if you don’t mind my saying? Don’t chance your arm unless you’re certain, he might knock your teeth out.’ 

Thomas’s chest convulses with something between a giggle and a cough, and he looks warily at James, who (thank god) appears not to have heard. ‘It is quite alright I assure you,’ he responds in a whisper, ‘the matter is very firmly settled.’ 

She sniffs, unconvinced, ‘well I’m sure you know best. Make yourselves at home then, I’ll send Mary over with a bottle and whatever else you might fancy.’ 

‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’ 

He hands her his coat and wig and makes for a table in the corner, where it is quiet. James follows him and sits down opposite, stroking his beard thoughtfully and staring. Thomas tries to meet his gaze, but finds it surprisingly difficult to do so. His lover’s eyes, intense at the best of times, have now become penetrating. 

‘Your house is a stone’s throw from three perfectly good taverns,’ James begins, sounding somewhat like a lawyer, ‘but you choose to travel five miles, to drink in the lowliest establishment I have ever set foot in.’ 

Thomas smiles and rakes his fingers through his hair ‘apparently so.’ He rather enjoys confounding the lieutenant’s expectations. 

‘I am waiting with baited breath,’ James continues, ‘will you explain or won’t you?’ 

‘Well..’ Thomas begins, wondering how best to navigate these dangerous waters. James does not discuss his amorous history, and he appears deeply conflicted where Thomas is concerned; first probing breathlessly for information, and then angrily closing his ears to it. But how can they expect to achieve real intimacy - imperative, if they are to make a life together successfully - without disclosing their secrets? He takes a deep breath and crosses his fingers (then immediately chides himself for the superstition). 

‘This is where I used to come… to find company. Intimate company. Before you and I met.’ He smiles anxiously, ‘knowing me as you do, you must have guessed that I…?’ The right form of words does not suggest itself, so he simply circles his hand in the air and hopes that the lieutenant’s imagination will supply the rest. 

‘I endeavoured not to think of it,’ James replies stonily. And in his face there begins the subtle choreography of twitches that Thomas has learned to recognise as distress. 

‘Ah… ,’ he swallows, rapidly losing confidence, ‘well as I say, this was before you and I met.’ 

‘Before… so you say,’ James repeats, looking down at his hands, which flex and curl in his lap as though they crave to be employed. ‘You came here often though, did you not?’ 

‘I wouldn’t say often, exactly…’ Thomas equivocates, ‘it was more…’ 

‘And the men you met here,’ James interrupts, with the determination of a child picking a scab that he knows will scar, ‘did you love any of them, or did you just fuck them?’ 

Thomas flushes and shakes his head, ‘you are refreshingly direct,’ he says. 

‘Answer the question damn you!’ James is more upset than angry, but that is little comfort to Thomas, who knows that his lover is volatile in either state. 

‘Oh James,’ he pleads, ‘there was not time for any of that! I knew these men for a few hours at most. I did not come here seeking love.’ He puts a reassuring hand on his lover’s knee, ‘My entire life, I have only ever loved my wife, and you.’ Thomas knows that there is no need to remind him which of those loves is the most significant. 

James sighs heavily, and then remains silent for a while, staring at his hands; the ceiling; the bottle. Looking at everything but Thomas. 

Eventually he asks, ‘but why here in particular? There are more reputable taverns where a man might find,’ he coughs, ‘others of his kind.’ 

‘Yes there are,’ Thomas allows, ‘but I find I cannot abide the better places. All those soft-skinned old-Etonians, quoting poetry at one.’ He shudders a little at the memory. ‘My tastes are more…’ he begins, but then tails off, sensing that he is on treacherous ground. Thank god, his brain supplies a less hazardous reason in quick time: 

‘And then there is the risk of recognition,’ he says hurriedly, ‘I am known on sight to most of my class, but in this place I have no name. I am just a gentleman choosing to slum it for a night or two. These tongues do not wag, and even if they did, no-one listens to chairmen or hackney coachmen, or whores. Their opinions are not sought by the likes of my father, though many of them speak more sense than ever he does.’ He closes with a flourish, ‘in this place you may sit on my knee if you are so inclined, none will remark upon it!’ 

‘Do I really strike you as the knee-sitting kind?’ James says, with a half-smile, finally seeming a little more at ease. 

Thomas risks a wink, and replies ‘drink a little more of that gin, lieutenant, and you might surprise yourself.’ 

****

Two bottles later, James does not quite sit upon Thomas’s knee, but he has migrated to the bench beside his lover, where he now reclines, laughing at his own punchline (some complicated nautical joke which was mostly lost on Thomas). His gestures have grown more flamboyant, his voice is louder, and his stiff posture has relaxed into a lascivious, legs-spread, slouch. He is not quite drunk, but tipsy certainly. 

As he begins another salty anecdote, Thomas tunes out the words and simply enjoys listening to the sound of his voice. It is an oddity, his accent, with its self-consciously rounded vowels and too-careful annunciation; every trace of the region of his birth has been obliterated. It cannot be the accent his mother gave him, but then so much of James is not what it seems. Has he always been something ‘other’ trying desperately to pass? 

When he eventually falls quiet, Thomas cannot resist cutting in with a question. ‘Have you friends, among the other officers James?’ 

Before answering, the other man takes a long swig from the bottle, then cocks an eyebrow up at him knowingly. ‘You suspect that I have had my own… intimate company?’ 

Thomas nods, notes the uncomfortable fluttering in his stomach, and says, ‘I picture a trail of broken hearts in your wake, do I have it right?’ 

James’s mouth curls up a little at that, apparently flattered by the suggestion. ‘One perhaps,’ he replies, with a hint of a sigh, ‘Captain Samuel Jeffries, I served under him for three years. Son of a viscount no less!’ 

Thomas feels his senses suddenly sharpen. Treading carefully, he asks ‘you and he were close?’ 

‘Yes and no,’ is James’s measured reply. ‘I used him rather ill, to be honest. But then he was the type to enjoy it.’ (Here he looks sidelong at Thomas). ‘It is a common vice among the pampered classes is it not, to crave a little rough treatment?’ 

Flushing a little, Thomas nimbly sidesteps the question, saying instead. ‘You did not love him then?’ 

James frowns. ‘God no! For me it was merely a succession of hasty fucks in the dark, nothing more. For him though, it was some sort of grand love affair. Poor bastard.’ He casts his eyes up to the cracked and mottled ceiling, as if mentally replaying an unpleasant encounter, then adds: ‘when it came to an end, I did not acquit myself well.’ 

Thomas touches his arm, ‘I am sure you did him more good than you know.’ It feels weak to him, even as he says it, but perhaps there is some grain of truth there. 

James accepts it readily. ‘I expect so,’ he says, with a rakish smile. And Thomas is a little shocked by the speed and efficiency with which his lover can bury feelings of remorse. 

‘Sam would find plenty of suitors in this room, I don’t doubt,’ James observes, leaning in close enough to tickle Thomas’s ear with his breathing. ‘He would be exactly to their taste.’ 

‘How do you mean?’ 

‘Well, speaking as a common working man,’ he murmurs mischievously, ‘we do rather tire of fucking our own kind. I imagine that when a man of quality strides in, it creates something of a frenzy. Was that your experience Thomas?’ 

‘Um?’ Thomas dithers. His gin-clouded mind strains to interpret the words, and he cannot fathom how on earth James wants him to respond. ‘I may have turned a head or two,’ he admits finally. 

James laughs, ‘I make it thirty, at my last count.’ 

Thomas scoffs unconvincingly, ‘surely not.’ 

‘Thirty pairs of eyes,’ James continues, ‘are at this moment staring hungrily at you, imagining how soft your skin would feel under their coarse hands, how sweet your lips would taste.’ 

The words drip into Thomas’s ear like honey, tempting him to reveal just how badly he would like to give all those coarse hands their wish; a sweat breaks upon his brow and he dabs at it self-consciously with his handkerchief. 

‘But I am with you.’ 

‘You are now.’ James responds, licking his lips. He takes another swig from his bottle, then continues, ‘I rather wish I had encountered you here, when you were still a stranger to me. I would have ached for you, from the moment you entered my line of sight.’ 

‘Oh…’ Thomas sighs, and a pleasant throbbing takes hold in his groin. 

‘You have an air of innocence about you, my love. It makes your depravity all the more enchanting.’ And as he finishes speaking, James’s lips brush against Thomas’s ear, causing a shiver to trickle down his back. 

‘Would you have approached me then?’ Thomas asks, though he already knows the answer. 

James laughs with incredulity, ‘of course I would have approached you!’ And then with another sidelong look, he adds, ‘after first checking my pockets, to make sure I had sufficient coin to engage such a high class…’ 

‘The cheek of you!’ Thomas’s mouth falls open with indignation, ‘I do not look like a whore!’

But James is unrepentant, and continues with his teasing, ‘you are dressed head to toe in velvet Thomas, and I expect your cologne can be smelled outside in the street, what is that, if not advertising?’ 

Thomas prepares to argue his case, but finds he has no case to make. And in any case, James is already speaking over his thoughts. 

‘What would you have done Thomas,’ he asks, ‘if I had set my coins down before you and asked you to come with me?’ 

Thomas replies honestly and without a moment’s hesitation, ‘I’d have done anything you asked. 

James smiles, and slowly closes what small distance remains between them, ‘is that so?’ he smirks, ‘well either you are cheaper than I realised, or I am even more dashing.’ 

There is no restraint in the kiss, no care for the many eyes that watch them or the passions that their display might stir. The drink has conjured up a looseness in them both, but most especially in James. His kisses are wild and impetuous, almost messy. The bristles of his beard are ticklish against Thomas’s chin, and the spicy tang of gin is overpowering on his breath. The taste of it fills Thomas’s mouth and nose like a medicinal draught, flavouring the wet slide of their lips, and tempting his tongue to slip out. 

How many illicit kisses has he sought out, in places like this, with men like this? More than he can count, but not one of them stirred him even half so much. The lieutenant almost has him on his back, and he feels a hand sliding into his lap…

‘Sir? Sir!’ Thomas only becomes aware of the voice when it is accompanied by a sharp pinch; he surfaces, blinking and panting, mouth wet. The proprietor looks at him apologetically, ‘begging your pardon sirs, but you appear to have need of a room?’ 

‘Well observed Madam,’ James says, rising from his seat and pulling Thomas up after him, an iron grip on his hand. 

‘I’m perceptive like that,’ she responds drily, ‘up the stairs, second door on your left.’ 

And off they go. James leading the way through the press of the crowd, chin raised like the prow of a ship, dragging Thomas in his wake. His pace does not slow until he has propelled Thomas into the bedroom and barred the door behind them. 

******

It is stuffy inside, and dark. Thomas’s eyes take a while to adjust to the gloom. 

The light from the solitary candle does not penetrate far, leaving the corners of the room inky black as the deeps. Odours linger in those corners; cheap and dirty smells of smoke, sour ale, and sex. The bed is huge, crudely carved, and buckled in the middle; it looks as though it has squatted here since the reign of Henry VIII, and seen action every night. 

James throws his weapons down on the floor with untypical carelessness, and then casually discards his jacket and waistcoat. Finally he stands next to the bed, wearing only his shirt and breeches. His body crackles with energy like a cat making ready to pounce. 

‘You said you would do anything I asked?’ he says, making it sound like a threat. 

‘I did,’ Thomas replies, and he means it with every fibre of his being. 

James nods, looks preoccupied. He runs one hand over his beard thoughtfully, whilst the fingers of the other hand make a tight fist at his side. Finally he tilts up his chin and says, ‘I want you to surrender yourself to me. Completely. Will you do it?’ 

‘Of course!’ Thomas breathes, his heart banging noisily in his chest; it is hard to imagine a demand that could thrill him more. But even as he rejoices, the small part of him that contains some common sense, wonders anxiously what surrender might entail. 

‘I suspected as much,’ James says, with a hint of a smile. ‘Stop loitering by the door then, and come here where I can see you.’ 

Thomas takes a few steps forward into the flickering yellow light, and then stands motionless and obedient as James as strips him of his clothes. It is all done with a stern sort of efficiency, very different to their usual rushed and passionate fumbling. And when every inch of Thomas’s cossetted body has been revealed, he feels doubly naked somehow, and vulnerable with it. 

Leaving Thomas standing, James seats himself on the bed and reclines. He regards his lover in silence; does not once reach out to touch him, or even look in his eyes. All he does is unbutton his breeches, slip his right hand inside, and take hold of himself with a sigh. Then the muscles of his forearm begin to pump and stretch, to feed the flicking motions of his wrist; smooth, quick, and controlled. His eyes go dark and hooded, and his lips curl back ever so slightly, from his teeth. 

Impatient to involve himself in James’s pleasure, Thomas takes a halting step forward. But the lieutenant merely looks at him in surprise. 

‘Did I ask you to move?’ he says. 

‘No…’ Thomas admits. 

‘Then go back where you were put.’ 

Thomas’s cock stiffens immediately in response to this scolding. And as he returns – chastened - to the spot where he was put, he feels it grow thicker and harder under his lover’s gaze, until it looks impolite somehow. Like a vulgar intruder at a private party. He rather likes to think of it that way. 

James says nothing more; continues only to stroke his cock, and devour his lover’s body with his eyes, as though Thomas were nothing more than a pornographic sketch on the wall. And there is something liberating in it, Thomas discovers, to let himself be so reduced and objectified. The crushing weight of his intellect, his responsibilities, his conscience; all are somehow lifted up and away. He stands, and waits, and watches; because James told him to, and for no other reason. How satisfying it would be to stand here all night, or for as long as his legs could hold him up! He feels as though he might float above the ground. 

Long minutes pass like this - James looking and lusting, and Thomas submissively waiting on his pleasure – until finally James stays his hand, pushes away the material that covers his cock, and reveals the fruits of his labour. It is hard, and long, and so thick. Thomas’s mouth fills with saliva. He can already taste it. 

‘See what you do to me,’ James grunts, ‘without even trying.’ 

Thomas glows, and fills with prideful feelings that he knows are beneath him, but does not care. He swallows, ‘I would like to do more than see it. Let me put my mouth upon it.’ 

James frowns, ‘your mouth will make trouble for you, my love,’ he murmurs darkly. ‘I would advise you to close it, unless I give you permission to speak.’ 

Something in James’s tone makes Thomas’s chest go tight with anxiety, and his skin prickles all over with sweat. _His men must be terrified of him_ , he thinks, astonished that he has not realised it before. _I know him better than anyone, but even I cannot tell if he plays with me, or if I have genuinely displeased him._

James stands, turns away from him, and begins methodically to remove the last of his clothes. He does not look as though he prepares to make love. More like a man stripping ready to fight. 

When he is done, he hugs Thomas from behind, trapping him with arms that close like iron bars around his chest. His lips and tongue slide ticklishly over the back of Thomas’s neck, making his head tingle and tense. Possessively, his hands caress the contours of Thomas’s chest, rubbing his nipples hard enough to hurt, and then travelling down to encircle his cock; testing his arousal, and stoking it, making Thomas’s knees buckle beneath him. 

‘It is one thing to say you will surrender,’ James whispers between kisses, ‘and quite another to make yourself powerless to do otherwise.’ 

Thomas moans. His cock is glowing, James’s rough hands feel delightful around it, and there are teeth scraping along his shoulder blade, as though they mean to sink in. 

‘What would you have me do?’ he whispers. 

‘Let me bind you to the bed,’ is James’s reply. 

And the way he says it, makes it sound like the most unspeakable act one person could perform on another. It makes Thomas tingle with excitement. 

‘Of course,’ he breathes, ‘if it pleases you to do it.’ 

James responds by kissing him so hard it cannot fail to bruise, then grabs his lover by the hips and pulls his body in tight. Shows Thomas the fierce arousal his submission has created. Drives it against him. 

The feel of James’s cock at his back, unyielding and impatient, makes Thomas bite his lip. He half expects the lieutenant to wrestle him to the floor and take him this instant. But James does not. Instead, he withdraws suddenly, sweeps up Thomas’s jacket from the floor, and begins inspecting it. 

Thomas frowns, confused, but holds his peace. And quickly James’s intent reveals itself – starting at the hem, he rips into the stiches with his teeth and then tears off a length of braid with a grunt of effort. It almost brings tears to Thomas’s eyes to see his fine clothes shredded so, but he fights the urge to complain, and watches in distress as James repeats the manoeuvre three times, then throws the jacket down upon the floor like a rag; a shining puddle of ruin. 

‘You have twenty like it.’ James observes, seeming to read Thomas’s thoughts as he tests the braid for strength, winding it around his knuckles and tugging it once or twice experimentally. ‘It is better employed this way. Now lay upon the bed face down, put your arms out at your sides like wings, and part your legs a little. Not too much… I’m very particular about how this thing should look.’ 

And Thomas hurries to comply, his eagerness to be bound tempering the loss of the jacket somewhat. His wrists reach almost to the edges of the bed, and the mattress sinks deep under his weight; he must twist his head to the side in order to breathe. It reminds him, suddenly, of lying prostrate at the altar. He tried that a few times in his youth, when religious fervour took him, but never quite managed to relinquish his will to god. How astonishing then, the ease with which he has given up his soul to James. 

His lover quickly ties each outstretched wrist and ankle to the wooden bed-frame. These are no simple knots though, seeming to hold him softly, but pulling tight as a tourniquet at the slightest resistance. 

‘Where did you learn this?’ Thomas whispers. 

James laughs mirthlessly, ‘I am a sailor if you recall, I can tie knots in my sleep.’ 

Thomas is not fooled though, this feels like something the lieutenant has done to other men, something he has practiced. Such ties as this have no application on a ship, even he knows that. 

James interrupts his thoughts with a delicate sweep of his hand; the warm and slightly abrasive sensation travels up the back of his thighs, over his buttocks, and into the small of his back. Not caressing so much as simply registering the curve. Thomas feels exposed, and it makes him shiver. 

‘What do you think was the first thing they taught me, when I began training to be an officer?’ James murmurs, repeating the action of his hand. 

‘I couldn’t say.’ 

‘Discipline.’ He annunciates the word with precision, as though the syllables themselves are deserving of respect. ‘More specifically,’ he continues, ‘how to scold, beat, flog and whip my men into submission.’ 

Thomas moans, he feels sick for those men, and envies them in equal measure. James is so beautiful in his rage; oh to be the cause of it! What a bittersweet thing that would be…

He feels the mattress dip down to the side of him, and the lieutenant’s warm breath disturbs the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘Do you know,’ he whispers, ‘I can beat a man half to death, without rendering him unfit for work. It takes uncommon skill to achieve such a thing.’ 

An ice-cold waterfall of dread gushes down Thomas’s spine, matched only by the re-eruption of tingling heat in his groin. Has he always suspected James had such darkness within him? Yes, if he is honest. The day they met, he saw the cuts on James’s knuckles, sensed the rage boiling inside him, guessed of what horrors he was capable. In some strange way, it drew him. 

‘I am respected for it,’ James continues, warming to his subject, ‘everyone benefits from an orderly ship.’ 

Once again, Thomas feels a hand sweep over his buttocks, but this time it lingers and the fingertips begin making slow circles, deeper and deeper into the cleft of his arse, tempting him. _Do not worry over right and wrong_ , they seem to say, _if you crave this darkness in him, why deny yourself?_

‘I do crave it, I do...’ his lips form the words silently, as the lieutenant’s mouth draws close to his ear once more. 

‘Every man in my service has felt the flat of my hand,’ he says. ‘It does them good. Trains them out of their bad habits.’ And as he speaks, his fingers creep down a little deeper, suggesting precisely what kind of habits he has in mind. 

‘Oh!’ Thomas gasps, as James’s fingertip bumps along the ridges of his anus. Lighting him up so powerfully in that place, that all other sensations dwindle away to nothing. Thomas cannot breathe, cannot think. He is dimly aware that James is still speaking...

‘And your bad habits, my love,' painful emotion is now evident in his voice, ‘would appear to be legion.’ 

With that, he suddenly pulls away, draws his breath in sharp, and: 

‘Ohgodjames! That hurt!’ 

The blow lands on his buttocks with such force behind it, that it knocks the air from Thomas’s chest and propels him up toward the headboard. His stomach flips inside him, and his eyes pop wide. In the burning, stinging afterglow, his cock stiffens painfully and begs for attention. He wants another. God help him he wants another…

‘Your promiscuity Thomas,’ James prompts, speaking breathlessly over his lover’s turmoil, ‘it requires correction, you must see that?’ 

‘I do,’ Thomas whimpers, ‘I do.’ 

‘Then you understand that I must leave a more lasting reminder. One small blow cannot begin to match the scale of your transgressions…’ His sudden intake of breath alerts Thomas to what is coming. 

_Oh heaven_ Thomas bites his lip and clenches up tight in readiness; an involuntary spasm that only makes the heat in him grow the stronger. And when the spanking begins again, he manages somehow not to cry out, just gasps and twists, as far as his bonds will allow, and opens himself up to the pain. Allows it to take him. 

Each blow is harder and noisier than the last, beating him down into the bed and making his eyes mist with tears. The crude sound of it bounces off every wall in the room, almost drowning out his lover’s passionate grunts of exertion. The indignity is exquisite; he has not taken punishment of this kind since his schooldays. 

‘Dear god Thomas,’ James exclaims, his voice now thick with lust, and something darker, ‘if you could see yourself now. The things I could do to you, and you powerless to stop it.’ 

‘I’m yours to command,’ Thomas moans, titling his hips forward, ready to submit to anything, ‘ruin me if you will.’ 

‘You fucking whore,’ James groans. 

_You fucking whore, you fucking whore…_. Thomas repeats the words inside his head, and discovers with surprise that they only magnify his lust. 

Behind him, he can hear James searching through his clothes. Then moments later, a splash of cold liquid makes him shiver with surprise; it runs like syrup over his buttocks, seeps into the cleft of his arse and trickles over his anus, making it twitch. 

The lieutenant’s warm hands follow swiftly afterward, ensuring that the oil goes where it is needed, and paying him conspicuously loving attention. To think that James used to fuck him in the dark, without ever giving a name to the parts that he took! Now he is downright audacious, violating Thomas with one finger, then two, then three. Easing him open, and watching as he does it. Watching his lover quiver with pleasure as he pumps his hand slowly in and out, releasing wave after wave of desperation. 

‘Oh that’s it, don’t stop…’ Thomas breathes. 

‘Is it even my cock you imagine as I do this,’ James murmurs, continuing the motion of his hand, driving deeper now, ‘or were there other cocks you liked better, perhaps you think of them?’ 

‘Never.’ 

‘You are sure?’ he picks up his pace, ‘you answered rather quickly Thomas, it makes me suspect you.’ 

Thomas knows there is nothing to be gained by speaking, James is minded to twist his words, whatever he might say. And anyway, his hole grows more hungry by the moment and his hips will not be still. God how he longs to be run through! Taken roughly by something hard and vicious. He needs to release the unrelenting pressure, he needs it now. 

‘How many men Thomas?’ 

‘Mmmm?’ 

‘Tell me, I must know,’ James’s voice is deceptively tender, ‘how many brutes have dragged you to this room, fucked your mouth, made you choke, spread you open and forced themselves inside?’ 

As he speaks, he slowly slides his fingers out, causing Thomas to groan with frustration. But frustration soon gives way to quivering delight as he feels the soft, wet tip of James’s tongue exploring him in their stead; it swirls over the gently puckered skin, delicately tasting him where he is most sensitive. 

‘Oh James, I don’t, I can’t…’ 

Thomas’s breath catches in his chest and the space behind his eyes flashes white. He drifts off into incoherence. And in his addled mind he tries to count all the occasions he has come here to flirt and to fuck. Far more times than was advisable, that’s for certain, but far fewer than he had the appetite for. What kind of answer is that? He can hardly say that. 

And through his confusion, he senses that James’s excitement is reaching a fever pitch. His tongue presses firm enough to risk slipping inside, and then his mouth breaks away to plant prickly wet kisses all over Thomas’s buttocks. Biting now and then. Hard enough to make him cry out. 

‘You disreputable thing,’ he scolds, his voice vibrating menacingly up from the base of Thomas’s spine, ‘the things you make me do to you, have you no propriety?’ 

‘None whatsoever,’ Thomas groans (what use in denying it?) and his words seem to tip the balance of an invisible set of scales, deciding James on a course of action that he must have been silently considering. It thrills Thomas, the thought of what might come next. He rocks his hips forward once again, opening himself up in hope. _Come on James, give me your best._

‘You gave me no choice,’ James croaks, anguish roughening his voice, ‘when this is done, remember that you gave me no choice!’ 

And the bed springs up with a tortured sound as he leaps to his feet. Thomas hears him snatch up his thick leather belt from the floor; hears his chest heaving with excitement; hears him pacing as he prepares himself. He can almost smell the lieutenant’s turmoil coming off him in waves, like the charge one perceives in the air before a storm. He turns his head just in time to see James winding his belt around his knuckles, jaw set in determination. There is a wild look in his eyes. 

‘How many Thomas, I would know the truth, how many is it?’ 

Thomas pauses just a little too long before answering, panic and exhilaration colliding in his blood. ‘Four, only four!’ he lies. 

‘Not even close.’ James mutters, and draws his hand back over his head. The belt hisses through the air and strikes Thomas’s arse with a crack. 

‘Aaahh! James!’ 

‘How many damn you, the truth now!’ 

He barely has time to register the pain before the next blow comes, and then the next. 

‘How many! How many!’ 

‘I don’t know, I don’t know! So many, too many…’ He gabbles uselessly, as tears of shock erupt from his eyes and flow saltily into his open mouth. This time there is no biting down on his cries; guttural, animal sounds pour from his lips as the belt stripes him, slicing down rhythmically, tenderising his back, his buttocks, his thighs. 

‘By god, you do not even know! You are a whore Thomas! You do not deserve my devotion!’ 

Thomas’s cries are louder now, harsh to his ears, and James seems only to be spurred on by them, striking and striking with savage grace, teeth clenched and snarling. Thomas tries desperately to speak. 

‘I am yours alone now, yours alone, you know that is the truth!’ The pain is beyond exhilarating, it is transfiguring. It chases away his fear, the suffering in his heart, every frustration of his life. He is aware of nothing but the force of every agonising impact, that and the maddening stiffness of his cock. This is pain delivered with love, but also with ugly, raw brutality. Oh what kind of monster is his lover! He wonders if James is capable of stopping. 

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ 

With the last shouted expletive James delivers a blow of exceptional severity, then hurls the belt into the corner of the room, like a snake that has bitten him. He paces then, feverishly liked a caged animal, cursing under his breath and letting out long shuddering sighs. 

Thomas watches him in silent deference, vision blurred with tears, until eventually his lover becomes more calm, and the anger in his face gives way to numbness, and then anxiety. Finally James climbs shaking onto the bed, and reaches out with nervous hands; crawling on top of Thomas and examining him with tender concern. He kisses the back of his head, his neck, and his shoulders. Then, more gently, he kisses the hot, stinging parts that he has striped and wounded. His lips are soft and comforting. 

Thomas thinks them the sweetest kisses he has felt in his life. 

‘Thank you,’ he whispers through a haze of pain and wonder, and feels his senses slip away from him one by one. Everything goes white, and then black. 

****

‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ 

Through the fog of his sleep, Thomas can hear James whispering softly. 

‘I love you. Oh god. What have I done? What have I done?’ It sounds like an incantation, the words tumble from his mouth in a stream of supressed panic. 

‘James?’ Thomas calls, then, ‘ahh!’ he exclaims, as his body wakes up and remembers the pain. 

His back, his thighs, his wrists, all clamour to be heard. Every nerve in his body sparks with sensation. It is overwhelming. He lies shivering with his eyes closed, just feeling it. 

‘Oh thank god!’ James sighs, stroking his head tenderly. ‘You slipped away from me. Just for a moment. The shock most likely.’ 

Thomas feels a hot, damp forehead pressing into his own, pleading him into wakefulness. Kisses urge themselves onto his motionless mouth. Somehow he manages to whisper, ‘is the skin broken?’ 

‘No, I promise you no,’ James replies, with apparent difficulty, ‘I took… some care.’ Then he breaks away, suddenly spurred into action, ‘let me untie you my love, see if you can sit up.’ 

Thomas opens his eyes and watches James unbind him with delicacy; somehow resists the compulsion to thank him for it. He is still in the grip of a dizzying euphoria, but he manages to sit up as instructed, and then flexes his fingers and toes gingerly to encourage the blood to return. 

His bonds have painted deep red welts onto the pale skin of his wrists and ankles; he supposes they match the other, more painful, welts that James has scored into his back. As he rubs them, he wonders how long these marks of depravity will remain, how long he will wear them under his clothes and feel their pain. The thought brings a flickering smile to his face; he feels changed, unfettered, cut loose and floating in strange seas. 

‘I’m so sorry,’ James begins haltingly, clasping Thomas’s hand but gazing at the ceiling to avoid his lover’s eye, ‘I meant only to strike you once or twice...I don’t know what demon possessed me.’ 

‘ _I_ know it,’ Thomas responds, stroking James’s stricken face and looking deep into his eyes. (Though, in the circumstances, it feels odd to be the one offering comfort). ‘I saw it in you the moment we met,’ he admits, quietly, ‘and I made my peace with it then.’ 

He takes James’s hand, draws it slowly into his lap, and folds its fingers around the erection that grows there. ‘See what it does to me, your demon,’ he whispers, ‘is it really so bad?’ 

Realisation dawns slowly on James, Thomas reads it in the twitching muscles of his face. First his fingers register the scale of Thomas’s arousal, measured crudely in length and stiffness, then he begins to grasp that his own barbarism is the cause of it. With an expression of utter disbelief, he reaches with his other hand to wipe away the tears that still remain on Thomas’s cheeks, then stares dumbly at them on his fingertips, as though he cannot allow that two such conflicting states could exist within one body, even though he holds the evidence in each hand. 

‘It cannot be true,’ he groans, lust beginning to creep back in, transforming his appearance from anguished to ravenous, ‘you took pleasure in that?’ 

Thomas answers with his mouth, sliding his tongue between James’s open lips, and urging him to respond; he does of course, how could he not? And as they kiss, Thomas seizes the opportunity to finally touch him, fingertips finding taught muscle everywhere they go… down, and down. 

‘You will not leave me wanting will you,’ he murmurs, leaning into James and straddling him, ‘I have such a burning need of you. Torture yourself later if you must, but fuck me first.’ 

‘What manner of creature are you?’ is James’s astonished response. He lets himself fall backward onto the bed, and then leers up at Thomas, ‘I will fuck you insensible, and gladly. Come here and take it, if your need is so desperate!’ 

‘I hope you are hard enough for me.’ Thomas taunts, lowering himself gently into James’s lap, wincing a little at the pain, ‘remorse has not softened you at all?’ 

‘Mount me and see for yourself,’ James replies with renewed savagery, thrusting upward against his lover lest there should be any doubt. There was not so much remorse after all it seems. ‘Mount me this minute you little whore,’ he commands with a rakish grin, ‘or I will thrash you again!’ 

Thrilled to his core, Thomas does not doubt that James would do it, and wonders how soon he will be healed and ready to take more of his lover’s chastisement. The thought almost makes him spill. 

‘Yes sir…’ 

His mouth opens wide, but he does not even breathe as he feels the length of it, pressing relentlessly into him, deeper and deeper. With some effort, he makes himself unwind enough to take it, sliding his body down, allowing his lover to open him up and spread him apart. It has been so long in coming - this blissful moment of pull and stretch, this sensation of being filled to the brim –that the relief is almost too much. 

‘How do you like me then?’ 

James demands of him, thrusting himself inside, insisting that Thomas takes him up to the hilt. He digs his fingers into Thomas’s thighs and grips him tight, making new bruises on virgin flesh. And Thomas begins circling his hips in answer, twisting James’s cock even deeper, and sending waves of pleasure surging from that nameless place inside. 

‘I like you best of all,’ he moans, ‘there is nothing you could give me that I would not take.’ 

And he means it too. With the others, sex was merely a diversion, the scratching of an itch. But with James there are no boundaries, no limitations. Fucking him feels like dancing on the edge of an abyss. 

He tips his head backward, and arches his back, transferring some of his weight to his hands. Now his hips can move freely; jerking up and down, pumping every inch of his lover. He knows that James will be staring at his body, and knows too, how good it will appear. His muscles are bunched up tight from his groin to his shoulders. On the inside he is all need and want and tingling heat, and on the outside, his tortured skin still burns and scalds. Reminding him what he is. Reminding him how monstrous is the man he loves. 

‘Did I take it well James?’ He spits the question out between shallow breaths, as his thighs work relentlessly and shuddering contractions take hold deep inside. 

‘You took it beautifully.’ James can barely speak now, forces the words through curled up lips and clenched teeth. The acute pleasure he feels showing on his face like pain. ‘I relished every blow, you know that I did.’ 

Thomas feels the lieutenant’s body go hard between his thighs. Evidence that a tension is building there, to rival his own. And though he knows he ought to check himself, he cannot stop spewing out the darkest contents of his soul: 

‘Will you take your belt to me again?’ he begs. ‘Will you bind me, and beat me, and fuck me…’ 

And as the shocking words leave his mouth, his body is gripped by violent tremors, making his legs shake beneath him, almost unseating him. 

‘If you go about whoring yourself,’ James threatens, beginning to come undone, giving way to Thomas’s relentless pace, ‘you will leave me no choice, if I even suspect…’ 

‘Of course you will suspect,’ Thomas counters, treating James to an exquisitely sluttish look from under his lashes, ‘you know what I am.’ 

James’s face is stricken but his cock betrays him, emptying itself violently, staking its claim. ‘Then God help me,’ he spits, ‘I will beat you hard and fuck you harder. You may count on it!’ 

And with those words ringing in his ears, Thomas finally lets himself go; feels his body milking James’s cock, flickering and pulsing around it. Ecstasy takes complete possession of him, contorting his face and carrying away all of the pain in his heart. If he died from this one fuck, he would not care. He cares for nothing but this feeling, and it comes again and again, until his cock begins to spill over all hot and wet. And beneath him, James throws his head back, groans, and gives one last desperate thrust into his lover. 

After that, Thomas is aware of very little. His clouded mind cannot name and classify the multitude of feelings that course through him. He knows only that James is holding him, and that he is happy, and that his body is utterly exhausted. 

As he gradually drifts into sleep, lulled by the beat of his lover’s heart, he feels James pull the softest of the blankets over his shoulders and tuck it in around him with tenderness. ‘You belong to me,’ he hears him whisper, _you belong to me…_

*****

The following day, James stands smiling in a Westminster back-street, looking for all the world like someone happy. He alighted from Thomas’s coach only moments ago, and now watches it trotting lazily in the direction of home, with his lover wrapped up snugly within. 

It is almost noon, and everyone about him seems busy and productive, in sharp contrast to James himself, who is not long out of bed. They slept late of course, the gin saw to that. And even when they awoke it was an hour or two before they felt able to rise and dress. So many tender ways to occupy themselves. So many new games to play. 

He might have stayed in bed all day given the chance, but hard flophouse beds are no good for a man whose bruises are turning painful, and Thomas was in need of a touch of laudanum to take the edge off. Miranda will see him right on that score, and can probably lay her hands on a pot of ointment too which is all to the good. 

James is a touch fearful of encountering her himself though. Rather tempted to delay it in fact. He suspects he is in for a slap at the very least, when she spies the wounds upon her husband. He will go home later, when Thomas has had time to work on her a little. Prepare the ground. 

In any case, Thomas was keen that he should find Hennessey at the earliest opportunity and sound him out on the matter of the pardons. They are both in dire need of his old friend’s advice. 

James can see the office of the Admiralty from where he stands, but as he turns to walk towards it he begins to feel uncertain, suddenly painfully aware of the Houndsditch mire on his boots and the depravity in his heart. Can he really wear the mask of an honourable officer today, after last night? Or would he be no better than a beast going about on its hind legs, believing it can pass for a man. 

Instead of going there directly, he plays for time, letting his feet take him down to the river and lead him through the embankment gardens. Today is windier than yesterday, and traffic on the river is brisk. He wipes his boots clean on the grass, then finds a low wall to sit upon so that he can watch the ships go by and gather his thoughts. 

Was it really only yesterday that his own ship landed here? So many nights he dreamed of Thomas and imagined how he would greet him; the passion he would show him; the acts he would perform on him. But the events of last night - even in his dreams he did not conceive of such things. He can still feel the aftershocks of his climax crackling in his blood, though the manner of his reaching it troubles him greatly. 

He has always despised men who beat their lovers, and god knows there are plenty of them to hate. Half of London’s wives, and even more of its mistresses, go about with black eyes upon their faces or livid bruises around their necks. So what is he to make of himself now? What defence can he mount of his character? Is he just one more domineering brute? In truth, he cannot be certain. 

James has always been prone to jealousy, but with Thomas it has acquired a new flavour; become almost fetishized. If it were just a little post-salon fumbling with his aristocratic peers, that would be one thing. But the thought of Thomas going night after night to that place, allowing those coarse men to commit all manner of indignities upon him, dear god! It fills James with panic and makes his fists itch; life has taught him only one way to show a man the error of his ways. 

But even as the anger and distress course through him, he cannot deny that Thomas’s promiscuity carries a powerful erotic charge. It gives his anger a lustful flavour, and confuses his heart. Like a siren it sings to him: _punish me James, do it for my own good, do it because you love me._

His right arm twitches, remembering how it felt to bring that belt down hard. Every blow made his cock grow thicker, brought him closer to spilling over. He barely needed to fuck afterwards, he was already half-spent. 

It is a mercy that Thomas craves the pain and the punishment, a kind of redemption. And in some peculiar way, James suspects that Thomas is the driving force behind all of this depravity, however submissive he may appear. It would not be the first time that Thomas had subtly manoeuvred him to act on desires he fully intended to keep buried! 

Every one of James’s worst, most lustful, most violent impulses, seems to find its answer in Thomas, in his body. He absorbs them all somehow, and makes them beautiful. _Oh god, his cries were like music, and the way he looked when I fucked him, like a fallen angel…_

He is at risk of stiffening his cock again, if he continues to think on these lines. 

‘James? Is it really you?’ 

The familiar voice startles him (freezing his nascent erection in its tracks) and he feels a hand on his shoulder. It lingers too long, as always, showering him with affection that he cannot return. His muscles clench tight and he fights the urge to recoil. 

‘Captain Jeffries, you surprised me.’ 

The slender young man withdraws his hand as though he has been stung. 

‘After all that has passed between us,’ he scolds, ‘you still cannot use my first name?’ 

James stands to greet him, smiling wanly; it is a thin gruel of an apology. He wants this uncomfortable exchange to reach its point quickly and then be gone. 

‘Sorry Sam,’ he says, ‘I did not know you were back in London.’ 

‘Evidently,’ the other man responds testily, sweeping his dark curls behind his ear, ‘you smell of sex.’ 

James rolls his eyes. _Here we go again._

‘I called on you last night,’ Jeffries continues petulantly, ‘but you were not there. The mistress of your lodgings said this to me: “he’ll be at Lord Hamilton’s house again, bedding her Ladyship. You’ll not see the whites of his eyes until morning.”’ 

_Bitch!_ James thinks. 

‘Of course,’ Jeffries continues darkly, ‘I know you better than to suspect the wife...’ 

James pounces on the words, comes out fighting even though he knows that he is the one in the wrong .‘Are you threatening me?’ he demands. 

But the young man does not look threatening, merely defeated. His body goes limp in the face of his erstwhile lover’s anger, and his lip begins to wobble. ‘How could you think it James?’ he whimpers, covering his mouth with one shaking hand, ‘I could never wish you harm, I… I love you.’ 

He looks ardently at James as he speaks, but what he sees in the lieutenant’s face apparently falls far short of the reaction he hoped for. The last pillar of his self-possession gives way, and the whole edifice crumbles into pitiful sobbing. Loud, wet and accusing. 

_Christ_ , James thinks, wincing, _must he do this every time._ He casts his eye around to make sure that they are not observed, and then pulls his handkerchief from his pocket, proffering it awkwardly. 

‘Here.’ 

Jeffries takes it gratefully, but it is some while before he regains control of himself. And after a short time, James finds his irritation has slipped away quietly, its place taken by more compassionate feelings. _If Thomas is ever denied me_ , he thinks, with rare self-awareness, _no doubt my grief will be considerably less pretty_. 

He attempts a comforting pat on the young man’s forearm, saying ‘there there,’ somewhat stiffly, then ‘come now.’ Though he achieves little by it. 

When Jeffries’ crying has finally run its course, he looks sorrowfully up at James and says, ‘I’m sorry to embarrass you. And I know I have no claim on you, I am not such a fool as all that. But James, Thomas Hamilton? What are you thinking of?!’ 

James hangs his head, ‘do not judge him by gossip, he is not so strange as people make him out.’ 

Jeffries only scoffs. ‘I do not care if the sun shines out of his arse! It is the danger I refer to. How long will his father tolerate your existence, do you think?’ 

_This again_. James begins to feel persecuted. ‘There is always risk Sam,’ he complains, ‘you know that. As I remember, we took a few risks ourselves, you and I.’ 

Jeffries looks aghast and throws his hands up in the air ‘there are degrees!’ Then more quietly he continues, ‘you cannot compare a few stolen moments in my cabin, to fucking Lord Alfred Hamilton’s son and heir in his own house! Where has your intellect gone James? You make me fearful. All the years you have spent climbing the ranks, will you throw it all away for a few fucks in a feather bed?’ 

James feels his hackles rise again, ‘do not speak of him as though he is some passing fancy, he is not, he is…’ Jeffries flinches against the truth, but James finds he cannot hold it in. ‘He is everything.’ 

The words almost take on solid form, and seem to hang in the air between them; Jeffries staring mutely at the river as though he has seen a ghost, and James grinning stupidly, just because it felt so good to say it. _He is everything to me, and I am nothing without him._

Jeffries is the first to break the silence. ‘Here is my advice then,’ he says, struggling manfully to sound matter-of-fact, ‘leave London with him today… no James hear me out! Fill your pockets with his wife’s jewellery and make for France. Their fleet will have you, and gladly. What’s the difference?’ he adds bitterly, ‘it’s all just fighting.’ 

James laughs in disbelief, ‘defect? Do you hear yourself?! There is no need to take such drastic action, I must only tread cautiously. And anyway, I am working on a scheme that will see he and I settled far from England...’ 

‘Well congratulations,’ Jeffries spits, ‘I expect Lord Alfred is working on twelve schemes, all of which would see you settled permanently at the end of a rope!’ 

‘Sam!’ 

‘Oh god!’ Jeffries kicks the wall in apparent frustration ‘there is no use in talking to you,’ he groans, ‘you will go your own way, you always do. I had best take my leave of you before I do something stupid.’ Once again his eyes fill with tears, and he uses James’s handkerchief to dab them dry, squeezing it tightly as though he is loathe to let it go. His sniffling creates an awkward silence that James feels obliged to fill. 

‘Would you like to keep that?’ he asks, ‘in case you…’ 

‘May I?’ Jeffries replies, running a finger possessively over the stitches. ‘God knows,’ he murmurs, half to himself, ‘I have nothing else to remember you by.’ 

A gush of remorse courses through James’s blood, making him weak. He wants to wrap the pretty young man in his arms, tell him everything will be alright, that there will be others more deserving of his love. But he merely stands silent, and stiff. Anxious that any comfort he gives will only create false hope. 

‘Goodbye then,’ Jeffries sniffles, but it seems that the young man’s legs are unwilling to carry him away. He simply stands there, clutching the handkerchief and breathing too hard, looking too long. 

In the end, James is forced to take matters into his own hands (or rather his own legs) and remove himself from their dismal tableau. He turns his back as gently as he can, leaving Jeffries standing on the embankment like a statue, erected in memory of a crushing defeat. 

On leaving the gardens, he follows the main road once more, jumping into the stream of humanity and weaving through the maelstrom of carriages, pedestrians, horses and dogs. As he passes the Palace of Westminster the clock tower begins chiming the hour, and it prompts him to pick up his pace. Hennessey will be at his desk for a few minutes yet, but if James is to catch him he must hurry. 

And he is increasingly desperate to catch him, especially after Jeffries’ outburst, and Miranda’s warning the previous day. His stomach is churning and his chest is tight. All his animal instincts are sounding the alarm, but he cannot discern precisely what they fear. And that makes him nervous. Makes him worry that he has been careless. He has never felt more in need of his old friend’s advice; some words of wisdom that might help him achieve a greater clarity of thought. 

The Admiral is in the foyer when James arrives, finishing up some business with a clerk. 

‘Hennessey,’ he calls, ‘have you a moment sir?’ 

The older man turns to see who has called his name, but when his eyes alight on James they seem to dim a little. _He looks so much older,_ James thinks, _has he been ill?_

‘James,’ he says finally, putting his hand out in greeting but carefully avoiding the other man’s eye. ‘It is good that you came of your own accord,’ he sighs, ‘I had no stomach to go looking.’ 

And before James can ponder Hennessey’s meaning, the door bangs shut at his back, and there is nowhere to go but onward. 


End file.
